Are We the Waiting?
by Never Forevermore
Summary: The war is over and Gryffindor's Golden Girl, Hermione Granger, is slowly but surely falling apart. Everyone seems oblivious to her downwards spiral. Is there anyone willing to help her? Is there anyone that cares?
1. The Jesus of Suburbia is a Lie

**Are We the Waiting**

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**Chapter One**

**The Jesus of Suburbia is a Lie**

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She moaned. Her hands lifted to knot in his hair and she unabashedly pressed herself flush against him. Tongues clashed feverishly and his hand lowered dangerously; his pale, freckled eyelids flickering passionately as he smiled against her lips.

Hermione Granger looked away from Ron and Lavender's heated snogging session, a frown tugging at the corner of her lips. Last year she might have blushed furiously and averted her eyes immediately, or perhaps she might have huffed at their antics, storming out of the Great Hall muttering about the pair carelessly flaunting their relationship. But not now. Not anymore.

Many things had changed over the past year. Voldemort was dead. Dumbledore was dead. Snape was dead. Remus, Tonks, Sirius, Fred, Percy, Neville, Padma, Seamus, Millicent Bulstrode, Goyle, Theodore Nott, Angelina, Katie, the elder Malfoys, her mother... Tens, hundreds, thousands. Muggles. Mudbloods. Half-bloods. Purebloods. Wizards. Gone; dead. All dead. Mangled, torn, broken. Ripped to pieces, torn to shreds, tattered remains strewn over everything, over everyone. A rainbow of flashes of light, a rhythm of falling bodies, a chorus of screams of horror and pain. Chaos. Destruction. So much pain, so much darkness.

Hermione's expression darkened, her eyebrows furrowing as the thoughts and memories overcame her.

Yes, many things had changed.

She took it the hardest, she supposed. They had all killed, had all seen death. But it still managed to strike her hard. Every mission, every battle... There would always be at least one less of them. And each time they lost someone, she lost a part of herself. So young, she mourned, so young and full of life... So much potential. Cut short. Stolen. She had never seen so much carnage, especially during the final battle. Never. And as she watched friends, strangers, and enemies fall, she lost pieces of herself. And even as she watched Voldemort fall, she felt a part of her collapse. She felt bitter. Now what? Defeating Voldemort had been their focus for almost a decade. And now he was gone. Now what? As people cheered their joy at the Dark Lord's defeat, she just stood there. All the studying, all the development of new spells, hexes, and curses, all of the planning and organizing and scheming... She had done it all to aid in the Lord's defeat. And now it was over. So she stood there, silent, bitter, and lost.

The first thing she did once the war was over was visit her parents. Even though they were guarded under numerous wards and enchantments, even the fidelius charm, destruction greeted her. Her mother was just one more on the casualty list.

Harry found his comfort in Ginny. they had been interested in each other for years and with the war over they were finally free to be together. Harry was finally at peace. The marauders were together at last and his parents had been avenged. He was free to be with the woman he loved and help her overcome her own losses.

Ron had Lavender. They had broken up before the war began and had wasted no time in getting back together once it was over. Fred and Percy's death had hit him hard, and Lavender was there every step of the way on his road to recovery. He no longer froze at the mention of their names, his eyes no longer glazing over with suppressed memories.

Her father found his comfort in the alcohol. Hermione's frown deepened as she idly pushed her food around on her plate. Her mother and father had been childhood sweethearts. When her mother was killed in a Death Eater raid, it was like a part of him had died as well with her.

Hermione stood up abruptly, murmuring a quick excuse to Harry and Ron. She didn't even get a grunt of acknowledgment. She watched them forlornly for a moment before nodding slightly, almost to herself, and sweeping quietly out of the Great Hall.

As soon as the warm air hit her face, she sighed with a ghost of a smile quirking at the corner of her lips. Nature always seemed to calm her down, especially after the end of the war. Hogwarts, the ancient castle that had once been her haven, her home away from home, was now more like a cell than anything else. So heavy and dark and dreary with memories of death and screams and chaos. Constant reminders of the Final Battle, pulling her down, holding her back. But the grounds... oh, the grounds. They had been devastated by the war. But with a little magic, Hagrid's careful care, and some help from mother nature herself, the grounds were once again flourishing. It was as if nothing had ever happened, as if the war had never occurred, as if thousands of people's blood hadn't stained the ground little more than a year prior.

She smiled wryly, running a hand lightly over a tree trunk as she passed. Hermione wished she was that strong. She wished she could recover and regrow. She wanted to be whole and beautiful and forget, she wanted to be how she was before. Her hand dropped limply to her side as she stared stoically across the lake.

Hermione stroked her arm absentmindedly. He blamed her. Her father blamed her for her mother's death. He never said it out loud, but the way he looked at her and spoke to her... The way he looked at her right before he went to the cabinet for alcohol. The way he stared at her when she helped his drunken form to bed, tucking him in and bidding him goodnight, his dead gaze fixed on her until his bedroom door was closed... He blamed her.

Hermione slumped down, sitting with her knees held tightly to her chest. She refused to break down and cry. She had to be strong. Everyone depended on her to be strong. She couldn't help but feel slightly bitter about it. Everyone turned to her with their problems. They unloaded all their issues onto her, but whenever she tried to do the same... She wanted them to recover. She was glad she was helping them be happy. But... She wanted to be happy too. If one looked at it, it was logical, she supposed. If you reasoned it properly, they gave her their problems so that they could move on and be happy. They gave her their deepest darkest memories so that they wouldn't bog down their significant others. If she tried to unload her problems on them, it'd just drag them down and depress them again. That wasn't fair. That was selfish. She owed it to them to be a good friend and help them. She could do it. She could be strong. And she could take care of herself. She could take care of herself, by herself.

Hastily, she smeared the stray tears that had managed to escape her eyes with her thumb. She just wanted to be happy too. So why couldn't she?

Ungrateful.

The word burned in her mind. She was alive. She had survived the war when so many people had fallen. She had the highest honours bestowed upon her by the Ministry. She received a sizable sum of gold for helping with the defeat of the Dark Lord. She still had a home, a father, wonderful friends... Food, resources, hell, she had _magic_! So why couldn't she just be happy? She didn't know.

She heard shuffling, tensing for a moment, before forcing herself to appear relaxed. Listening intently, she began to dissect the information her brain was registering. Heavy footfalls; probably male. A few seconds between steps; long strides. Smooth sounds; graceful walker. From the sound and feel, the were twenty-five feet away, maybe thirty. Hermione felt bitter again. The war had trained her, taught her to hone her senses and how to survive. Now she couldn't even be approached by someone without tensing and assessing whether or not they were a threat.

"It's quiet."

She instantly knew who it was. There was no doubt in her mind who owned that deep, smooth voice.

"Draco." She greeted him neutrally.

"Hermione."

There was a pregnant pause. He stood not six feet from her and she assumed that he was gazing out across the lake as well.

"It's nice." Hermione murmured, breaking the relaxed silence. "I like it."

"Yeah," He agreed, just as quietly. "I like it too. Lonely though."

She remained silent for a few seconds, as if considering what he said. "Yeah. ... Yeah..."

Silence.

Draco Malfoy had been a spiteful, irritating prick for the better part of four years. In his fifth year he was just as spiteful, but he had seemed exhausted and drained, his insults holding much less passion than they had previously. His task had been taxing on him. And then there was _that_ night. Snape fulfilled his oath. Dumbledore was dead. Snape, Malfoy, and the other Death Eaters retreated to their Lord.

Not a day later, Snape appeared on the Order's doorstep, a mauled young Malfoy in his arms.

It took hours, a bottle of veritaserum, a pensieve, and much coaxing for Snape to explain what was going on. He explained that he was a spy for the Order and that he had killed Dumbledore on Dumbledore's orders. He explained that Draco Malfoy had been punished severely for his failure. Upon seeing their son hurt so badly and so close to death... They switched sides. The family that had been the face of pureblood extremism switched sides. Whether or not they still believed in pureblood superiority was up in the air, but both Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy agreed to become spies for the Order of the Phoenix.

As Snape explained the situation to the skeptical Order, Molly Weasely had patched up the young Malfoy. When she was done, there was barely an inch of skin that wasn't bandaged or bruised. The Malfoys, Snape had explained, didn't want Draco turning spy with them. He was already on Voldemort's bad side due to his inability to kill Dumbledore, and Draco was more likely to be killed than to gather any useful information on the Dark Lord.

So the youngest Malfoy became a well known traitor, becoming as wanted as the rest of the Order.

Relations were strained. Draco Malfoy remained the same arrogant bastard he always had been, only becoming more subdued. He fought against the Dark Lord openly with them, attacking the people that others had once considered his 'friends.' Even still, he was treated as scum. Most people in the Order made it clear that they didn't trust him, loathed him, and wished him dead. They bullied him, called him spiteful names, fought with him, cheated against him in training matches and hitting low...

Hermione never really saw the point though. Sure, he might have only joined their side to avoid being crusio'd into insanity and then avada kedavra'd, but they needed every willing fighter they could get. So she put her differences aside and treated him like an equal, like he hadn't tormented her for the past five years, like he didn't have the dark mark slithering on his pale forearm. She could never tell if he appreciated her treatment of him, but they swiftly entered a mutually tentative truce. That truce rapidly developed into a strong friendship. He was brilliant, she discovered, and his intelligence rivaled her own. He listened to her rants and raves, her schemes, her worries, and her hopes, rarely divulging information about himself. He could keep up with her mentally and his fighting was top notch. The training he endured as a Death Eater was intensive, to say the least, and his knowledge of curses, hexes, and jinxes made him all the more dangerous.

Yes, the young Malfoy had grown up over the past few years and the war, she reluctantly admitted, had done him some good. He was no longer the scrawny, rat-faced shrimp she remembered from her first day at Hogwarts. No, he had shot up like a weed, reaching a respectable height of six foot four. He was still lean, but he was well toned, his muscles faintly defined under his pale skin. His milky skin that contrasted so strongly against his black dark mark.

It disappeared once Voldemort was dead. The mark and the searing pain and eternal discomfort it created vanished from every Death Eater's forearm. Even so, when Hermione met his gaze from across the battlefield at the end of the Final Battle, she could detect the familiar emotion of bitterness in his eyes.

His mother and father were both dead. Narcissa's betrayal had been discovered and she was promptly tortured and executed by her own sister, Bellatrix. Lucius could do nothing to help her; his role as Voldemort's lackey had sent him clear across the country at the time of her murder. Upon discovering her pale corpse drenched in blood lying in their bed at Malfoy Manor, he became enraged and vowed to help take down the Dark Lord if it was the last thing he did.

It was.

In the Final Battle, Lucius Malfoy took the killing curse for his son. The Malfoy family had been a lot closer than anyone had previously thought. And now Draco Malfoy was on his own. He had no friends. His old 'friends' were either dead or shipped off to Azkaban for their role as Death Eaters in the Dark Lord's army.

The Malfoy name itself became controversial. At first it was despised, as hated as Voldemort's or Bellatrix's. Most believed that Narcissa and Lucius had died as passionate Death Eaters. Once it was revealed, however, that they had been spies for the Order, some considered them heroes. Their names received awards for their services in the war. Even though they had assisted in the defeat of the Dark Lord, old wounds ran deep and many people refused to pardon them or speak their name. Like most of the Order, Draco Malfoy recieved honours, awards, and gold. Now that she considered it, it was almost funny how similar they were.

"It's nice. Different."

He knew what she was thinking about. The contrast between the disorientingly chaotic screams of the Final Battle that had taken place on the soil beneath them and the current serenity was mind numbing.

"Yeah." He agreed before pausing. "What are you doing out here, Granger?"

She couldn't tell what he was thinking, what his motive was. She was always jealous of his ability to mask his emotions.

"To escape," She answered honestly. "Just to escape."

He was silent and she began to elaborate, feeling as if she needed to explain what she meant.

"I'm tired," She admitted, "I'm so tired. I just needed a break from the acting and the pretending and the lying. I'm getting tired of pretending that everything is fine, that everything is back to normal. It's exhausting."

There was a lengthy pause.

"Yeah."

"You?"

Another pause. She turned her head to look at him and was somewhat surprised to find him staring at her. Hermione saw something flicker across his features, but before she could register what it was, it was gone. He merely shrugged in response. "Same."

She nodded at him, more to herself than anything else. He nodded back before directing his full attention back across the calm surface of the lake. Hermione continued to look at him for a moment before following his lead and staring at the scenery before her, thinking of the lie she lived inside the castle. Everyone thought she was untouchable, that she hadn't lost anything in the war, that it hadn't affected her. Well they were wrong. They didn't know.

The Jesus of suburbia was a lie.

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**Harry Potter is to J.K. Rowling**

**Are We the Waiting is to Green Day**


	2. This Dirty Town is Burning Down

**Are We the Waiting**

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**Chapter Two**

**This Dirty Town is Burning Down in My Dreams  
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"Professor Sprout, could I borrow Miss Granger for a moment?"

Hermione stared at Professor McGonagall as she stood holding the door open to greenhouse number seven. She could feel her classmate's eyes fall on her as Professor Sprout assented. With a sigh, Hermione rose out of her seat and made her way towards the waiting professor. She had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. An unsettling, sick feeling that tossed and turned in her belly and refused to leave her be.

In all honesty, today had already been less than optimal. She was stressed over her upcoming graduation and, essentially, her future. She constantly worried over maintaining her high marks. They were barely a quarter into the year and she was already exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally. She couldn't seem to fall asleep anymore and accidentally slept it, missing almost half of her first hour class. And then, during lunch, she had gotten into a horrible row with Harry and Ron.

Hermione discreetly flashed a glance at them as she followed McGonagall out of the humid greenhouse. They were sitting clear across the room from her. With a heavy sigh, Hermione closed the door behind her.

"Miss Granger." McGonagall looked concerned and Hermione immediately felt her stomach drop in cold dread.

"Yes... Yes professor?" Hermione rasped, forcing her voice not to crack.

"Miss Granger, I'm terribly sorry... It seems that your father was in an automobile accident."

All colour immediately drained from Hermione's face, her olive skin now papery white. Her vision swam and the blood roared deafeningly in her ears.

"P-pardon me? she asked pleadingly, hoping that she had heard the headmistress incorrectly.

McGonagall appeared apologetic. "I am very sorry Miss Granger. It seems he was intoxicated and was trying to drive home from a local pub. He lost control of the vehicle and jumped the median..." her usually strict voice trailed off as she stared down at her star pupil. "He was taken immediately to a muggle hospital but upon discovering his identity, the ministry had him relocated to St. Mungo's."

"How is he?" Hermione demanded desperately, moving closer to the older witch.

There was a pause as McGonagall thought about how to break the his condition in the least harmful way possible. "He's currently in critical condition." She finally divulged hesitantly, eying the Head Girl carefully.

Hermione felt like swooning. She felt numb, as if she was watching the scene before he play out from outside her own body. McGonogall's voice seemed muffled and hazy, like it was coming from above water. Colours and shapes swirled before her eyes. Hermione could barely focus.

"The ministry contact me as soon as they could," McGonagall continued, after staring at Hermione for a moment. "According to the healers, the soonest you can visit him is tomorrow at noon; the healers don't want any visitor's while he's in such a critical condition." The old, graying witch put a comforting hand on Hermione's shoulder. "You're excused from the rest of your classes today and for the rest of the week. I understand this must be difficult for you and trust you can make up all your missed work when your father is better." She paused again, patting the young girl's arm before removing herself from any contact. "Do you need me to walk you to your dorm Miss Granger?"

Hermione swallowed thickly before shaking her head jerkily. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion and she barely registered herself replying to her headmistress. "I'll be fine. Yes... Don't worry, Professor, I'll be fine... I'm just going to- I'll just go get my books."

McGonagall stared at her worriedly but did not voice her concern. "Of course. I'm very sorry Miss Granger, I wish you and your father the best of luck."

Hermione barely noticed the headmistress' departure. She stood stone still, as if some Greek marble statue of some unknown tragedy. A few minutes passed before she numbly turned on her heel and headed back into the greenhouse. She felt people staring at her as she gathered her things silently, packing all of her supplies carefully into her worn bag. Her father had given it to her as a gift for making it into Hogwarts. Moving swiftly down the aisle back towards the door, she kept her gaze low. As she passed Harry and Ron, however, she couldn't help but sneak a look. She choked on her breath.

Hermione heard a surprised and concerned "Granger?" being voiced behind her, but she paid it no mind. Murmuring a quick excuse to Professor Sprout, she bolted, pushing open the door noisily and sprinting away from the greenhouses and the castle.

Her bag was dreadfully heavy and slammed into her side at every step she took, killing her balance and slowing her down. Her breaths came in laboured gasps and pants. She was no runner or sprinter and the thick tears that silently streamed down her face only hindered her further.

They were leaving her behind. She choked back a sob and forced her fatigued limbs to keep moving. Harry and Ron... They were leaving her behind Their happy and carefree expressions were etched in fire behind her eyes and tormented her as she ran blind. They didn't need her anymore. They didn't want her anymore. She choked back another sob. They were happy without her there; they didn't need her. They were happy while she was still broken. They didn't want her.

Hermione screwed her eyes shut tighter, as if if she didn't see the world, then it wasn't real. That if she kept her eyes shut tightly, she could close out all the hurt and pain and depression and memories that dragged her down. And that when she did open her eyes, the world would be beautiful. Harry and Ron would be by her side, chatting cheerfully with her as they made their way to Hagrid's cabin for some tea after a long day of work. They would joke and laugh and later they would retreat to the common room for a quick game of wizard's chess and cocoa before settling in for the night. There would be no more shadows, no more nightmares, no more fears. The world would be beautiful and bright.

Her eyes wrenched open as she stumbled. Running blind, her foot caught on a rock protruding from the thick grass and it sent her sprawling to the ground. Her bag went flying; her books and supplies scattering all over the place. She considered rising to her feet and running away again, but she just couldn't feel it. She just didn't have the energy anymore. She was tired. So very tired. Gathering the energy she did posses, she rocked gently and rolled herself onto her back before stilling once more.

A large, silly smile spread across her face. The clouds were pretty. With the way the sun was hitting them, they looked like giant puffs of cotton candy she used to get at the fair when she was younger. She felt the ground tremble underneath her, but she really didn't care. Slow, thick tears streamed down her face as she giggled. If you tilted your head, that one cloud looked like a duck. She loved ducks. They were fat and cute and made adorable quacking noises. Yay duck!

She had snapped. Hermione Granger had finally snapped.

"Granger? Granger!"

Hermione merely giggled in response.

This dirty town was burning down in her dreams.

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**Harry Potter is to J.K. Rowling**

**Are We the Waiting is to Green Day**

**

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**_A/N: Not a filler exactly, but this chapter is more of a link than anything else between chapters one and three. Pardon it's shortness. I'm glad everyone likes it as of now. :) Also, a bit of a heads up. I like to keep the characters believable, but I also enjoy twisting them and seeing how far I can push them in a certain direction while still maintaining their identity. That's the point of these 'oneshots', observing different levels of emotion and responses. So_ _please forgie any ooc tendencies you may discover._

_Also, I do not have a beta reader nor do I really want one. If you spot a mistake, feel free to correct me. It is much appreciated._


	3. Are We, We Are

**Are We the Waiting**

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**Chapter Three**

**Are We, We Are  
**

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"Granger?"

She could recognize that voice anywhere. Still, Hermione disregarded his concern laced baritone with a giggle as she traced cloud patters i the sky.

"Granger... Hermione? Are you alri-"

"Draco, do you like ducks?"

"What?" He looked at her strangely for her seemingly random question. "Er... No. No, I-"

"I love ducks."

He could do nothing but stare at her.

"They're cute," She grinned and pointed out another duck shaped cloud. "My daddy and I used to go to the park all the time and sit by the pond and feed the ducks. He loved ducks too. He'd buy loaves of bread strictly for them. And then he'd stand on the bank and tear up the bread into little pieces and the ducks would be swarming and quacking and he'd laugh and hold my hand and help me toss the bread right." Hermione laughed and demonstrated the proper throwing technique in the air.

Draco was at a loss as to what to do. He had ever seen Hermione like this before. He had figured out that she wasn't as strong as she'd like everybody to think, but he had never seen her this distraught, had never seen her become so overwhelmed that she just completely _snapped_. It seemed _so_ wrong to him, yet he understood. It was so wrong, seeing the 'Great' Hermione Granger lying on the ground so... broken. He frowned and his brow furrowed. They were alike in so may ways and he knew her pain. When she met his gaze across the battlefield he recognized the blank look in her eyes. He had see it in the mirror many times before.

So as not to scare or startle her, Draco moved slowly to her side, sitting down in the grass with her. Hermione ignored him for a moment or two before looking at him with a silly grin. With the enthusiasm of a child, she grabbed one of his large hands in her petite ones. Her hands were soft and warm, he mused with a small upwards quirk of the lip.

"Look!" she exclaimed, pointing again at the sky. She guided his hand in the air, outlining a cloud in the shape of what he assumed was another duck.

"My mother adored ducks as well. They loved each other so much." He became aware that they were no longer talking about ducks. "They were childhood sweethearts you know, two halves of a whole. They loved each other so, so much." As Hermione continued to speak, she became more and more serious and less childlike in her enthusiasm and mannerisms. The playful sparkle faded from her eyes, but she made no move to release his hand from her own.

"She died in the November raid." Hermione said solemnly, her voice level and neutral. Her grip on his hand tightened slightly. "You remember that one, right? There was so much destruction, so much damage to those buildings... She was crushed. Like so many others. They only found piec-" She pursed her lips. "I could have saved her, you know. If I had been there, I could have kept those buildings up. But instead I was at headquarters. In the library. Researching." She sneered in self loathing and Draco opened his mouth to correct her, to tell her it wasn't her fault, but he never got the chance.

"He blamed me. Me and my magic. He's never said it, but there really isn't a need to. Just the way he looks at me..." Hermione turned her head to look up at him. He had never seen her cocoa eyes so filled with pain, not even when he watched her being tortured in his own house. "If I wasn't a witch, she wouldn't be dead. If I wasn't Harry Potter's best friend, she wouldn't have been targeted along with the rest of those people. If I was such a smart student, why couldn't I save her? It was my fault. They were so close. So in love. And when he lost her..." She shrugged, turning back to the sky. "He didn't know how to cope. How do you deal with the loss of half of yourself? How? He turned to alcohol. He would drink his problems away. And the looks he gave me... When I had to go out and pick him up because he was too drunk to make it home or walk up the stairs... How he stared at me when I tucked him into _their_ bed. He hates me. If I was as gifted as everyone makes me out to be, I could have saved her. If I was really the brightest witch of my age, I would have been able to save her and Fred and Tonks and Remus and-" A dry sob cracked her words and she trembled.

Draco didn't know what to do. Emotions weren't his strongest point. He locked them away, pushed them from his mind. It was how he coped. If he didn't think about it, if he refused to feel it, it wouldn't hurt. That clearly wasn't going to work for the witch next to him, however. Moving instinctively, he drew her closer to his body and cradled her gently to his chest as her petite body shook. "Shh..., shh..." he murmured, stroking her back awkwardly in what he hoped was a soothing manner. To his surprise, she flung her arms around him and clung to him as if he was her lifeline.

"McGon-" she hiccuped and tightened her grip on him. "McGonagall told me... told me he got drunk and he tried to go home and jumped the-" she seemed to anticipate his confusion towards the muggle-ness of it all. "He tried to go home and he was drunk and he crossed onto the wrong side of the road..." By the time she had finished, she was once again quaking in his arms. He didn't need her to continue to get the gist of what had occurred.

"He's in St. Mungo's. Critical. I- I can't lose him." She sobbed, shaking her head. "I don't have anyone else. I can't lose him. Harry and Ron don't need me. They can barely stand me anymore. We- We got into a row over it earlier. How I've changed so much. Why I'm so depressed all the time. Why I'm so 'dead'. They don't want anything to do with me. They hate me! They hate me..." Her sobs quieted but her grip tightened. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

Draco held her and shushed her gently, speaking soothing and calming words softly into her ear. "There's nothing wrong with you, Hermione. Nothing. It's okay. You don't have to be strong all the time. Everyone breaks. Everyone has a limit. It's okay."

Hermione tore herself from his grasp and he felt an overwhelming loss; a sudden coldness in his body.

"No, no it's not okay. It's not alright! I have to be strong. Everyone else is! I should be too! Why can't I be strong? Why aren't I...? Everyone else is... Even you! Even you." She looked up at him, her eyes filled with emotion. Confusion, curiosity, pity, shame... He had lost both of his parents to the war. He had 'betrayed' his friends, he literally had no one left for him. And yet she was the one breaking. Disgraceful.

Draco laughed humorlessly. "Trust me Granger, you don't want to be like me." There was a bitter and self-loathing quality to his tone and she hesitantly reached out to him, grazing his hand. He flinched, but he didn't withdraw from the contact.

"What I do... It's not good Granger. It's not a good way to cope." He shrugged, diverting his steely gaze out over the lake, his face the well practiced and well known Malfoy mask. "I shut things away. Ignore them. Bottle things up. Emotions are a weakness. That's what my father always told me. And Granger... Malfoys are not weak." He scoffed to himself, murmuring in an undertone, "No matter how many times they may fail at a task, Malfoys are not weak." He shrugged his lean shoulders again, letting his comment hang in the air. "My father is dead, but I keep to what he told me. Habit, I suppose. Habit and... Feelings are... strange to me. I've been avoiding them for so long, so it's a difficult thing for me to really... deal with. Malfoys do not feel fear, but there's no other word to describe this... thing towards emotion. I don't know how to respond to them." He laughed humorlessly, somewhat skeptical. "It probably doesn't make any sense. But I've kept things closed off for so long... I wouldn't know how to act. And as much as that helps me cope it's... crippling, Granger. Don't damage yourself like that."

"But you're showing emotion right now," Hermione argued, "You're being real with me right now."

He smiled wryly. "You open me up. What can I say, Miss Granger? You open me up."

A faint blush coloured her cheeks and she dropped her gaze. Draco looked down at her and touched the pinkening skin softly with his free hand.

"Don't be like me Hermione. Just be you. It's alright to need help. You can't be strong all the time."

"I know. I just... They tried to help me, I guess, but I just pushed them away and tried to make them think I was okay and..." Her face scrunched up in exasperation and she pressed a fair fist against her forehead in frustration and concentration. "I just feel... so alone now. Harry doesn't need me. He has Ginny. Ron doesn't need me anymore. Lavender has taken my place. No one needs me. My father doesn't want me anymore. I feel so... alone." She sat up and drew her legs to her chest, trying to keep herself together.

She felt him put his arm firmly around her shoulders and she froze momentarily, looking at him warily with her eyes brimming with questions. They had formed a tentative friendship when he had joined the order that had slowly blossomed into a close companionship. However, she wasn't sure what to make of his affectionate gestures. They had never crossed the line of a deep friendship and she didn't count his comforting embrace as anything more than a friend helping a friend. But as she felt his body heat warm her own skin, it would be a lie to tell herself that the contact between them was anything but amazing.

"You don't have to be Hermione." His silver eyes were dark, staring at her from under pale lashes intensely.

Hermione swallowed dryly, wetting her chapping lips with her tongue. A small smirk formed on his lips and he leaned down closer to her. His warm breath ghosted over her lips and her eyes flickered shut unconsciously.

"You don't have to be alone, Hermione. Let me help you." He murmured. He stared at her, waiting for her answer, not moving any closer to her waiting body. A moment passed slowly and her eyes and mouth remained closed as she seemed to contemplate what he was saying.

He was just about to pull away when Hermione's plump lips opened a fraction. "Alright," she whispered, and, gathering her Gryffindor courage, she leaned up to meet his patiently waiting mouth.

Draco's laid back and reserved manner instantly gave way. His mouth yielded immediately to her and he licked and nipped at her lips, coaxing them open. His tongue was everywhere, tasting and strong and probing, wrapping around her own and teasing her. She responded unsurely at first; it had been a long while since she had properly snogged a man. Throwing caution to the wind, she meshed her tongue with his and stopped thinking.

Kissing him was like freedom and she gasped, pulling herself closer to him. He tasted of sharpness and clarity and of fresh air and opportunity.

Both breathing heavily, the pair separated as oxygen became more than necessary. She rested her forehead against his and smiled her first real smile in a long while. Her coffee coloured eyes met his shyly and he smirked, trailing his hand down the side of her face, down her neck and across her collar bone, dancing down her side, and reaching for her hand, lacing their finger together.

"It'll be okay." He murmured, pulling her body to perch on his lap, holding her securely from behind.

"Yeah. Yeah it will be." She smiled and looked out over the lake with him, leaning back against his chest.

There was a comfortable pause as the two took in the scenery, watching the sunlight play with the churning waves of the lake.

"Are we?" He asked her gently after a while, a smile in his voice.

"We are." She squeezed his hand and smiled.

* * *

**Harry Potter is to J.K. Rowling**

**Are We the Waiting is to Green Day**

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* * *

**_A/N: aaanddd, that's the end. I hope you enjoyed Are We the Waiting, it was a fun little ditty to write. :)_

_The next story in the ABC series is titled 'Break'. It'll be a single chapter story, but I assure you the chapter is quite... lengthy. Look out for it, it should be up soon._

_Anonymous: Apologies for those three mistakes. I was under the impression it was only one word. Now, perhaps, a critique of the other few thousand words? ;)  
_

_A Shade of Gray91 : yeahhhhh, she's completely lost it, I believe. Sorry it was somewhat predictable, I would have included more about the other characters, but I really wanted Draco and Hermione to be the main focus. ;) Personally, Harry and Ron are not my favourite characters. I find Harry to be really... **whiny** and Ron to be **dumb**. :| I hope I hinted at it, but Harry and Ron didn't really abandon her. She pretty much pushed them away in an effort to convince them that she was alright. After a while, they just gave up trying to help and let her be._


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